Take a photo of a barcode or cover
3.54 AVERAGE
3.54 AVERAGE
challenging
mysterious
reflective
tense
slow-paced
Plot or Character Driven:
Character
Strong character development:
No
Loveable characters:
No
Diverse cast of characters:
No
Flaws of characters a main focus:
Yes
If you want to experience the literary version of a very long anxiety dream, then The Unconsoled is just for you.
The protagonist, Mr Ryder, disembarks in an unnamed European city for the concert of his life. Everyone is expecting such very big things from Mr. Ryder, such vast incalculable things. But what they are, we are never quite sure, for he constantly gets pulled into every single minutiae of the cities citizens.
This continually throws the reader on a non-linear path through the city over 3 days where great distances are travelled, yet a single door can open up to his original location. Mr Ryder is also able to hear conversations between people despite remaining in a vastly different location. Within this dreamlike structure, Ryder encounters characters that are blatant past and future avatars of himself, battles with a disintegrating marriage, and akwardly bumbles through a relationship with his son.
Ishiguro is one of my favourite writers, and this is probably his most divise book. Many bemoan that's its boring and way too long (it is) whilst others champion its brave form and structure. I'm roughly in the middle but have bumped it up to 4 stars as
1) it's Ishiguro, and 2) Although it's a slog and largely impenetrable, the prose is really clear and crisp.
The protagonist, Mr Ryder, disembarks in an unnamed European city for the concert of his life. Everyone is expecting such very big things from Mr. Ryder, such vast incalculable things. But what they are, we are never quite sure, for he constantly gets pulled into every single minutiae of the cities citizens.
This continually throws the reader on a non-linear path through the city over 3 days where great distances are travelled, yet a single door can open up to his original location. Mr Ryder is also able to hear conversations between people despite remaining in a vastly different location. Within this dreamlike structure, Ryder encounters characters that are blatant past and future avatars of himself, battles with a disintegrating marriage, and akwardly bumbles through a relationship with his son.
Ishiguro is one of my favourite writers, and this is probably his most divise book. Many bemoan that's its boring and way too long (it is) whilst others champion its brave form and structure. I'm roughly in the middle but have bumped it up to 4 stars as
1) it's Ishiguro, and 2) Although it's a slog and largely impenetrable, the prose is really clear and crisp.
Based on the reviews I've read, readers of this book seem to fall into two camps:
1. "IT'S GENIUS!"
2. "AHHHHHH!"
And I fall into the second camp for sure. This book is indeed dreamlike but in the most literal/least literary way imaginable. I feel like when that phrase is used in regards to a book, it usually means that it's heavy on magical realism. The Unconsoled (a title I assume is referring to its readers) is like every stress dream I've ever had. As someone who was plagued for YEARS with going-to-be-late/dressed-inappropriately-for-the-occasion/how-come-no-one-else-is-concerned-about-this-urgent-matter dreams, this book fed on whatever deep-seated anxieties I have and made it an incredibly difficult read.
Once I was about half way through, I got used to feeling the needing to re-read every time I thought I'd missed something and just did my best to accept that this book was what it was.
This all being said, it's obviously incredibly we'll done. No one likes to listen to someone tell you about "the weirdest dream they had last night". Hearing someone say, "So I was at my grandma's house but, like, it wasn't my grandma's house?" is boring and meaningless to anyone but the dreamer. Yet I somehow managed to read this entire book and ACTUALLY cared how it ended (SPOILER ALERT: infuriatingly, duh).
If you can handle the anxiety and confusion (have you read Kafka? Did you make it through OK? You'll be fine) I recommend trying this one out. I almost gave up several times but am glad I got through it because it is pretty impressive work even if I do have bald patches where I ripped my hair out.
1. "IT'S GENIUS!"
2. "AHHHHHH!"
And I fall into the second camp for sure. This book is indeed dreamlike but in the most literal/least literary way imaginable. I feel like when that phrase is used in regards to a book, it usually means that it's heavy on magical realism. The Unconsoled (a title I assume is referring to its readers) is like every stress dream I've ever had. As someone who was plagued for YEARS with going-to-be-late/dressed-inappropriately-for-the-occasion/how-come-no-one-else-is-concerned-about-this-urgent-matter dreams, this book fed on whatever deep-seated anxieties I have and made it an incredibly difficult read.
Once I was about half way through, I got used to feeling the needing to re-read every time I thought I'd missed something and just did my best to accept that this book was what it was.
This all being said, it's obviously incredibly we'll done. No one likes to listen to someone tell you about "the weirdest dream they had last night". Hearing someone say, "So I was at my grandma's house but, like, it wasn't my grandma's house?" is boring and meaningless to anyone but the dreamer. Yet I somehow managed to read this entire book and ACTUALLY cared how it ended (SPOILER ALERT: infuriatingly, duh).
If you can handle the anxiety and confusion (have you read Kafka? Did you make it through OK? You'll be fine) I recommend trying this one out. I almost gave up several times but am glad I got through it because it is pretty impressive work even if I do have bald patches where I ripped my hair out.
Finally.
l think this is the 4th time l have attempted to read this, giving up purely because l didn't have the ability to solely focus on it - life got in the way.
l love this author. His dreamy style is most effective, but this book felt different to me.
Undoubtedly his most daring in regards to form, there's a tortured tormented feel to it that lies deeper than the the story and our poor poor protagonist.
l can't help but feel the author was glad to be rid of this, and it shows; a vague stench in the pages...
l think this is the 4th time l have attempted to read this, giving up purely because l didn't have the ability to solely focus on it - life got in the way.
l love this author. His dreamy style is most effective, but this book felt different to me.
Undoubtedly his most daring in regards to form, there's a tortured tormented feel to it that lies deeper than the the story and our poor poor protagonist.
l can't help but feel the author was glad to be rid of this, and it shows; a vague stench in the pages...
I give it four stars because it was long and not in a good way but a frustrating way. The whole time the narrator has this semi-amnesia and even though he eventually begins to remember things, this doesn't help at all to understand who he is or what is going on. Also a very unsatisfactory ending. But really well written!
It’s been some time since I finished reading The Unconsoled, and I’m still not sure if I’ve totally digested it enough to write out any coherent thoughts. Though, that seems an appropriate place from which to review this slow motion quicksand tornado.
I’ve seen this story described as dreamlike, and that is unarguable. Ishiguro quickly and masterfully allows us to enter into this state, setting the stage for the suspended disbelief we’ll need to make it through the whirlwind we’re to embark on over the next 500+ pages of absolute unbridled insanity.
This left me with a profound unease that has stuck to my bones in the way of childhood nightmares I’ve never been able to forget. Almost in contradiction to that stickiness, I might describe this story less like a dream and more like what I imagine dementia must feel like.
Dreamlike is almost too whimsical a descriptor for my experience of this story. Of course, there is some whimsy and humor, which was necessary and welcomed. Further, the fantastical wibbly-wobbly-ness in this quantum flow of time, where every action takes simultaneously forever and no time at all, plays into the dreamlike consciousness and keeps the pages turning.
We are forced to experience the frustration and freedom of not being lucid or in control along with our protagonist. From arriving somewhere you didn’t know you were going, to remembering you were supposed to be somewhere long after you should have been, to finding yourself participating in an activity you really didn’t want to, we’re forced to relinquish any sense of control and hold on for dear life as we’re shouted at to enjoy the ride.
Aside from the topical, albeit visceral, sensations of this story, it shed light on some extreme fears, which are the truly sticky bits. The fear of everyone finding out that you’re a hack, the fear of your parents never seeing you make something of yourself, the fear of death and loss of love, the fear that our efforts to fit in will prove unfulfilling or futile, and most apparent, the fear of a wasted life - of getting to the end and realizing that you haven’t even come close to touching your own potential. And worse still, the fear that even if you do somehow reach that potential, no one will care enough to see it. Or perhaps even worse, the fear that we will achieve greatness, and love, and see all the wonders of the world, and our parents will be proud, and our friends will celebrate us, but then in the end, we’ll simply forget all of it, and end up in some place we didn’t know we were going that all at once feels unfamiliar and looks like it could be home.
Still, just like we’re forced to in life, our protagonist trudges on, tossed here and there.
In the end, rather than be defeated, a final rewarding meal of buttery croissants and extra sausages after what felt like a lifetime of starvation is all we need to get to whatever comes next.
Unbearable, unforgettable, undeniable brilliance. This will be one to revisit once the haunting sting wears off.
I’ve seen this story described as dreamlike, and that is unarguable. Ishiguro quickly and masterfully allows us to enter into this state, setting the stage for the suspended disbelief we’ll need to make it through the whirlwind we’re to embark on over the next 500+ pages of absolute unbridled insanity.
This left me with a profound unease that has stuck to my bones in the way of childhood nightmares I’ve never been able to forget. Almost in contradiction to that stickiness, I might describe this story less like a dream and more like what I imagine dementia must feel like.
Dreamlike is almost too whimsical a descriptor for my experience of this story. Of course, there is some whimsy and humor, which was necessary and welcomed. Further, the fantastical wibbly-wobbly-ness in this quantum flow of time, where every action takes simultaneously forever and no time at all, plays into the dreamlike consciousness and keeps the pages turning.
We are forced to experience the frustration and freedom of not being lucid or in control along with our protagonist. From arriving somewhere you didn’t know you were going, to remembering you were supposed to be somewhere long after you should have been, to finding yourself participating in an activity you really didn’t want to, we’re forced to relinquish any sense of control and hold on for dear life as we’re shouted at to enjoy the ride.
Aside from the topical, albeit visceral, sensations of this story, it shed light on some extreme fears, which are the truly sticky bits. The fear of everyone finding out that you’re a hack, the fear of your parents never seeing you make something of yourself, the fear of death and loss of love, the fear that our efforts to fit in will prove unfulfilling or futile, and most apparent, the fear of a wasted life - of getting to the end and realizing that you haven’t even come close to touching your own potential. And worse still, the fear that even if you do somehow reach that potential, no one will care enough to see it. Or perhaps even worse, the fear that we will achieve greatness, and love, and see all the wonders of the world, and our parents will be proud, and our friends will celebrate us, but then in the end, we’ll simply forget all of it, and end up in some place we didn’t know we were going that all at once feels unfamiliar and looks like it could be home.
Still, just like we’re forced to in life, our protagonist trudges on, tossed here and there.
In the end, rather than be defeated, a final rewarding meal of buttery croissants and extra sausages after what felt like a lifetime of starvation is all we need to get to whatever comes next.
Unbearable, unforgettable, undeniable brilliance. This will be one to revisit once the haunting sting wears off.
I liked his Never Let me Go book, so I was looking forward to The Unconsoled. This book made NO SENSE! You know when you're sleeping, and you know you're in a dream, and everything is weird and annoying and not making any sense and you have that kind of ill feeling and finally you realize HEY i can just WAKE UP?! Well, that's what happens in this book. Nothing makes any sense it seems like he's in a dream since he can't remember anything then he knows people he doesnt know and places change all around and it's like everything that's up is down and really, was the author high when he wrote this?! and it was really making me feel vaguely nauseous when i remembered, i can just wake up! AKA, stop reading. So i did. Don't read this book.
The plot of this one is focussed on Ryder, a pianist who is booked in for a performance. In this there’s forgotten commitments, rushed bookings, heart attacks, a bloody missing leg and a really intelligent child for his age called Boris of all names.
I feel like there’s an Ishiguro cycle when reading one of his books. Start, very slow, not sure what is happening, chaos, not sure what is happening still, finish, think it was okay, reflect upon it until you realise it was pretty genius.
I read this one in December and am only just figuring out my opinions, on the path from what the fuck❓to what the fuuuck
I feel like there’s an Ishiguro cycle when reading one of his books. Start, very slow, not sure what is happening, chaos, not sure what is happening still, finish, think it was okay, reflect upon it until you realise it was pretty genius.
I read this one in December and am only just figuring out my opinions, on the path from what the fuck❓to what the fuuuck
I am determined to read all his books, and am working my way through. I loved Remains of the Day and Never Let Me Go, very different but both so good. I liked Buried Giant though it is a stretch. This one was quiet, and I do like that, but at times it just dragged a bit too much for me. He is such a good writer and his books are so well done but this one was just a bit long and slow, yet good.